


On the Road Again

by itallstartedwithdefenestration



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Boyking!Sam, M/M, slight wing!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallstartedwithdefenestration/pseuds/itallstartedwithdefenestration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That one where Sam and Lucifer get stuck with a flat tire and everyone's cold and upset until they remember car sex exists. And other tales.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Road Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuckyeahlucifersupernatural](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/gifts).



> For the FYSL Hotter than Hell 2014 Fanwork Exchange. The prompts used were 'Messiah' and 'The two of them stuck in the middle of nowhere with a flat tire in the freezing cold'. 
> 
> I'm kind of unsure of the rating, if it should be T or M, so please let me know if I should change it~

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me,” Sam says, flat and angry with his hands clenched tight around the steering wheel.

In the passenger seat, Lucifer stretches himself out, one languid easy line, hands hooked behind his head and a faint smirk etched into his mouth. “Told you to go slower three miles back,” he says, because he’s a completely unhelpful asshole, and Sam kind of really wants to hit him. 

This was just supposed to be a brief trip topside, a venture back into the real world because Sam hasn’t seen it in a few years—five thousand in Hell, five on Earth. It wasn’t supposed to be an exercise in Sam’s most absolute reaches of patience, but here they are. Stuck on the side of the road, middle of Fuck-Knows-Where, Wyoming, with a flat left front tire and no spare in the trunk because—

“Why is there no spare in the trunk,” Sam asks, squinting out the windshield at the darkening sky.

“What—spare what,” Lucifer says in response, and Sam groans, sliding a hand down his face.

Today is shaping up to be _the absolute worst,_ and there’s still six good hours left of it yet.

Earlier, they were in Chadron, Nebraska, picking up food supplies at a rundown supermarket off the Interstate. The girl at the checkout counter looked honestly shocked to have any customers, and so Sam had been sure to buy more than he or Lucifer really needed—can of Pringles, small box of Little Debbie cakes, bag of raw pasta, some Kraft dinner, among other things—and he’d told her to keep the change.

“I let her keep the fucking change!” Sam says now, unhappy and irritated with himself.

“Oh yes, Sam, because that would be _so much help_ to us right now.”

Sam feels his jaw tighten. “Just because you don’t need to eat—”

Lucifer stares at him. “Don’t take your hunger out on me when you’re the one who was unable to watch the road.”

Sam twists the key in the ignition, listens to the motor die with a rattling thump. “Just fix the fucking wheel, Lucifer,” he says, rough and tired into his hands.

“No,” Lucifer replies, calm like they’re discussing the weather, and Sam has to struggle to keep from overturning an entire line of trees to their right. 

There are days when he really, honestly fucking hates the Devil.

*

There was never a moment of indecision when Sam announced he was going to say ‘yes’ to Lucifer, five years ago (or five thousand) when the apocalypse seemed imminent and there were hailstorms every other Wednesday— _why Wednesdays,_ Sam had asked, and Lucifer had kind of shrugged and made an offhand gesture: _seemed good a day as any, and the name is hard to spell, so I’m not a fan_ —and power surges running up and down the West Coast and the border between the United States and Mexico. Dean complained that Sam was selling himself out, that no matter what he did or didn’t do, they were all pretty much fucked so Sam might as well keep denying the Devil, sit back, and enjoy the ride.

But Sam didn’t like that idea, he was tired of seeing so much destruction on motel television sets and in the bars, tired of hearing the general populous cry about their losses, the wildfires that sprang up and killed their pets, tornadoes ripping through their homes. He was tired of knowing it was all indirectly his fault, for not agreeing to be Lucifer’s vessel right from the start. Carrying all the weight of the world on his shoulders and knowing all he had to do was say one single-syllable world to end it, and Sam could not sleep thinking about the suffering, the screaming and the sadness. 

When he and Lucifer met up—Lucifer backed by a few demons that were twitching constantly the whole time, torn between automatic reverence in Sam’s presence and utter terror that they would be killed—Sam was first and foremost shocked at the heat between them, crackling energy that seemed almost visible, suffused into the air and making it almost impossible to draw breath. He announced his intentions, digging his hands into fists so they wouldn’t shake as much. Watched as an expression of mild surprise crossed Lucifer’s face—as if Lucifer hadn’t been anticipating this for so long now.

They were together for a while, not doing much for or against the apocalypse, Lucifer mostly content to stay settled back in Sam’s head and talk to him, trying to make sense of a world he did not understand and trying to get Sam to see things his way. _You could start over,_ he’d pointed out once. _There could be so much room for you, Sam, so much good you could do,_ and Sam had sighed and bit his lower lip and made excuses so Lucifer wouldn’t know he was starting to believe him.

There was a compromise, two months after, Sam not agreeing—never agreeing—to the apocalypse, but _going into Hell,_ he’d said, _might have its benefits._ Because Lucifer wanted someone to rule with him, someone who he was comfortable with, and Sam—well. Sam was aware of his rightful place on Hell’s throne, if nothing else, and curiosity tampered down aversion so he and Lucifer went under, Sam swearing to Dean he’d be back someday and that god help him, he didn’t want to be in Hell but at least the apocalypse wouldn’t take place.

In Hell, Lucifer took on a different form—Sam supposed for convenience. Younger than Nick but still blond, gray-eyed, with pale skin and an edge to his jaw that Sam couldn’t stop staring at. It took a thousand of Hell’s years before Sam realized why he was drawn to the flush on Lucifer’s skin when he was frustrated or amused. Another five hundred before he acted on his feelings, pulling Lucifer against him on his throne, fingers blistering heat against the cool line of Lucifer’s neck, mouths seared together, Sam biting Lucifer’s lips and thinking, _nothing will ever be better than this._

Sam’s been a good king, gentle and kind even to his lowest demon subjects, healing the small animals that find their way into Hell and stopping the torture of souls one plane at a time. He loves Lucifer with a fierce loyalty that surprises him sometimes, intense and electric like the sky during a thunderstorm. He thinks of Earth often, doesn’t necessarily miss it but he does have demons check on it, on his brother and on Bobby. 

When he suggested to Lucifer that they go up, just for a visit and maybe a small roadtrip, Lucifer had laughed, curled his fingers against Sam’s jaw. _Whatever you want, Sam,_ he’d said, so they’d come up, Lucifer keeping his Hell-form because they were used to it and sex was easier that way. Sam inhaling the fresh scent of rain for the first time in so long, Lucifer stretching his wings out and blinking up at the night sky.

_We don’t have to stay long,_ Sam said, at the beginning, and Lucifer shook his head, watching fascinated as Sam hotwired a car in the parking lot of an Albertson’s:

_We’ll stay however long you need to,_ he replied, and tucked his fingers through Sam’s belt loops. He was still smiling when Sam drew him close, pressing him to the side of the car and kissing him breathless under the blurred stretch of the Milky Way.

*

They’ve been kind of fighting across at least two states now, this odd on-and-off thing that is completely fraying Sam’s nerves. He doesn’t know how much more of it he can take, it isn’t like they don’t fight in Hell but it’s different here, where everything is solidified and sometimes it’s warm and they’re stuck in the damn car together all the time; makes Sam think of the way it used to be with him and Dean. He rubs a tired hand across his face, drags his thumb down the ridged edge of the keys. 

“If we don’t fix the tire we’ll be stuck here all night,” Sam points out. 

Lucifer grunts against the back of his wrist, doesn’t answer.

Sam breathes out, trying to steady himself without doing anything unthinkably dangerous like storming out of the car, no idea where they are or how far it is to the next major city. The last edges of sunlight are disappearing over the horizon in steady strips of red and violet and orange, beautiful fire colors slightly muted by the gray-white snow covering everything. Even used to the cold as he is, Sam knows it would be stupid to leave. 

He reaches into the backseat and tugs a package of squashed Ring Dings out from under the grocery bag. “Snack?” he offers Lucifer. 

Lucifer’s eyes drop to the box, and then back up to Sam’s face. He raises an eyebrow, and Sam rolls his eyes: “Just asking,” he mutters, tugging on the flap until it rips off and pulling out one cake. “S’gonna be a long night.”

There’s a long pause. Lucifer’s staring at Sam through half-lidded eyes, like he’s trying to dissect him, see something inside him that Sam isn’t revealing. 

Sam takes a few bites of Ring Ding. “We should’ve gone to Hell again sooner,” he says, mostly to the steering wheel.

“I told you, Sam—” Lucifer visibly cuts himself off, mouth going tight and hard, thin white line, eyes like stones and oncoming hurricanes. “We can stay here as long as you think you need to,” he continues after a beat, “it isn’t going to make any difference in the amount of times we are angry with each other.”

Sam cuts a glance over at him, listening for any sort of emotion, a crack in the soft ruin of his voice that might betray he’s feeling just as tense about this whole situation as Sam is. Even if he’s still partially an angel and will never really see things the way Sam does, no matter how long they’re together.

Lucifer is just looking at him though, nothing on his face but careful neutrality and Sam makes a low sound at the back of his throat, tosses the half-eaten Ring Ding to the side and unlocks the car doors.

“Where are you going?” Lucifer asks, as Sam pushes on the handle.

“Not far enough,” Sam mutters, and slips out.

*

When Sam first arrived in Hell, he was honestly shocked at how cold it was, temperatures crackling at just above zero degrees Fahrenheit as he made his way to the throne that was designated for him, built of bones and blood and thorns. 

_It’s fucking freezing in here, Lucifer,_ he said, voice scraped raw with a sort of dark fascination.

_I burn cold, Sam, what would you expect,_ Lucifer said, stretching his arms out and flexing his fingers, all new tendons and skin, and Sam laughed softly without really understanding why.

There was a demon, Caelis, who had been instructed to give Sam what he needed ( _however much of it he asks for_ ). Sam didn’t quite understand what was meant by that until his first night in Hell, when everything was sort of settled down and quiet and Sam was alone, idly watching a small patch of moss grow in a corner and thinking, I’m saving the fucking _world_ here. 

Caelis approached him then, arm held out, an almost exact replica of Ruby’s knife in his left hand. _Sire,_ he said, and Sam raised an eyebrow:

_You wanted something?_

In response, he touched the knife to his skin, cut along a vein. Blood spilled out, dark and hot and all of Sam’s old desires rushed to the surface at once, his hunger and his need and he was shaking with the effort not to take. Because he’d drunk it once, two months ago on Earth when he’d said ‘yes’ to Lucifer, but that didn’t mean he was going to ever again. 

_Please, Sire,_ Caelis said, holding his arm to Sam’s mouth, and Sam pushed him out of the way and ran to Lucifer’s chambers.

The archangel was sitting on the floor, back hunched and eyebrows drawn together like he was in pain, but Sam made himself ignore that, made himself shout, _What the fuck are you **doing**?!_ and Lucifer turned, looked up at him with this wary expression.

_The blood would make it easier for you here,_ he said, not trying to pretend he didn’t know what Sam was talking about, and Sam felt a surge of—something in his chest, welling up hot and fierce and too fast, so he almost couldn’t see straight. 

_You don’t get to decide what I need,_ Sam said, low and firm and so angry he was shaking with it, and he turned and stormed out, slamming the chamber door shut behind him. 

No one was allowed to bring it up around Sam again after that, and Caelis was sent to a different section of Hell so that Sam wouldn’t have to see him anymore, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind, the way everything was tainted with the scent of blood, and how _badly_ he craved, sometimes. How much less of a bad idea it seemed here, where everything was already about as messed up as things could get anyway.

*

Sam walks just far enough away from the car so he can’t feel the residual heat still coming off the engine, and then stops, stares at the horizon. The sun’s gone down completely now, only the faintest strips of color remain and Sam stares at them, at the stars scattered across the vast expanse of sky. For no apparent reason he thinks, _tonight is bad, and tomorrow will be beyond imagining,_ quote from a book he hasn’t read since he was still in high school, and he shivers, wrapping his arms around himself. 

It’s quiet for a long time. Sam can hear small animal noises coming to life in the woods beyond the road, muffled scratching through snow and hollow thumps of bigger creatures and the lonely, echoing cry of an owl. They’re all just waking up, these fierce night watchmen, eyes opening into the darkness the sun is leaving behind. 

It’s almost completely black, only the faintest traces of navy blue smeared at the edge of the sky, stars blinking into existence like slow-moving dots, before Lucifer gets out of the car and comes to join Sam at the side of the road. 

“It’s cold out here, Sam,” Lucifer murmurs, mirroring Sam with his hands in his pockets, head tilted to the side.

“It’s okay,” Sam says, watching his breath smoke out and crackle in front of his face, dragon-esque human response to low temperatures that has always amused him. 

They both watch the moon start to come up over the tree line to their left. Stand still for so long Sam starts going stiff and has to move, stretch his legs and crack his knuckles out in front of him. There aren’t any other cars coming, just their stolen Mazda and it’s settled nice and tight in the snow, flat tire barely visible over the powdered line. 

Sam starts, “Luce, about earlier,” and Lucifer says, “You have nothing to apologize for, Sam,” and when Sam looks over at him he’s looking right back, cautious expression in his eyes, this hesitant little lift of his eyebrows, mouth not quite smiling but Sam’s known him long enough to understand that’s what he’s getting at. 

He moves, steps an inch closer to Lucifer. And then another, and another, until they’re nearly breathing the same air, until Sam can feel the familiar low thrum of electricity between them, Lucifer’s Grace and Sam’s soul—what’s left of it, anyway—reaching out to each other like polar opposite magnets. Finding each other every single time. 

Sam kind of ducks his head down, letting out a sharp exhale as he stares at his feet. “King of Hell and I can’t even keep a fucking tire from going flat,” he mutters, and Lucifer laughs softly, reaching to rub his fingers through the ends of Sam’s hair. The rough pads scratch against Sam’s skin, gentle and slow, and Sam breathes out, shutting his eyes and leaning into the touch.

“You haven’t needed to be human for a long time, Sam,” Lucifer reminds him. “You can make mistakes sometimes. It’s all right.”

“It’s not,” Sam mutters, but there’s a very small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

*

A couple hundred days after Caelis left, five or six months’ time for Sam to sit and smell the blood coursing through each demon that came near him, making him crave and gasp and dream, dark overheated visions and the remembered taste like salt-covered iron, there was a day when Sam was walking alone through the halls, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. Lately he’d been feeling more antsy than usual, this constant tugging in his chest like he had to be somewhere, something big and important to do that he couldn’t quite figure out. 

He was avoiding Lucifer, too, Lucifer who looked like so much _more_ here, no longer hunched over in pain but standing tall and glorious, shimmering with the effects of Hell and mostly healed-over wounds on his wings and his Grace. Which were still invisible to Sam, he could sense them but he couldn’t see them, and that was oddly frustrating. 

Sam tried not to dwell on why.

He came across a group of demons as he made his way down the hall, smaller demons of lower rank that Sam had never seen before. Red-skinned and covered in spikes, tails lashing out at their backs and Sam barely had to strain to hear the blood rushing through their veins, hot and sharp and ready. 

He swallowed, stopped. _What are you all doing here?_ he asked, and one of them looked up, its eyes flashing yellow. 

_Torturing souls,_ it hissed, sneering, and Sam didn’t know why but its voice reminded him of Meg. 

_Move,_ Sam ordered, straightening his shoulders a little and tugging his hands out of his pockets, and they scattered reluctantly. The lower ranking demons, Lucifer had told Sam once, knew who he was and of his significance, but they weren’t as obedient as the upper divisions, the ones that had names and human forms and belonged in armies. They were wilder, more vicious and more prone to base demon instinct, and the thought had always made Sam shudder in faint disgust. 

Now, seeing the soul these demons had been torturing, Sam felt a flare of something white hot and terrible pass through him. It was flayed open, this soul, and screaming, one long shrill line of pain and all Sam could think of was Dean, all he could see was his brother under Alastair’s training. 

_How **dare** you,_ is all Sam said, voice low and threatening, and one of the demons made an abortive movement forward, trying to speak, and Sam grabbed it by the throat, held Ruby’s knife to the pulsing vein there, and plunged inward. 

Sam sucked them dry; there wasn’t much blood between the four of them to begin with but it tasted like coming home, better than anything Sam had tried in a long while. After, he put his hand on the soul, mostly to comfort it, and was surprised to find himself capable of healing, if only in small amounts. He sent it back where it had come from and went straight to Lucifer.

_What’s happening to me?_ he asked, only a little bit scared, feeling mostly powerful, an adrenaline rush that didn’t want to go away. 

Lucifer looked over at him, small sad smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, and _I told you,_ he said. _The blood can help you here. It isn’t so bad, Sam, if you let it all in._

Sam swallowed. He thought about saying ‘no’, thought about saying ‘I will never let any of this in’, because it’s what Dean would’ve told him and it seemed like the right kind of thing to say, brash and overconfident and hurtful. He thought about how this was probably what Lucifer wanted, this was everything Sam had worked so hard to prevent and if he gave in now it would all just backslide, coalesce in some meaningless lump and gather dust for centuries.

He thought, _I’m so tired of running,_ and he thought, _what the fuck can it hurt, we’re already all screwed anyway._

Out loud, he said, _Show me what I can do now,_ and the sad texture fell away from Lucifer’s upturned mouth in small increments. 

_Follow me,_ Lucifer said, and the shadow of his wings fell across Sam’s hand for the first time as he stepped forward.

*

They stand out in the open for a while, breath fogging up in front of them, Lucifer’s fingers rubbing absent patterns against the back of Sam’s neck. There are a thousand stars overhead, Sam points to the constellations he remembers from his astronomy seminar back at Stanford and names each in Latin. 

After a while, Lucifer steps away from Sam, his fingers trailing slowly from his neck. When Sam looks over Lucifer is watching him, something quiet and almost hesitant in his eyes. The air around him is sparking, shimmering with the residual effects of his Grace.

Sam says, “What,” very softly, and Lucifer reaches out, his fingers hovering half an inch from Sam’s cheek. As if he thinks he still needs to ask permission to touch, all these years later. 

“I want to show you something,” Lucifer begins, cautious, and Sam nods immediately:

“Anything, Luce,” he says. There’s nothing in the whole universe Sam doesn’t want from Lucifer, nothing Lucifer couldn’t give him and nothing they aren’t willing to share. They’re going to be together always, Sam and Lucifer, the Devil and his Messiah, burning through Hell and ripping apart everything everyone thought they knew. 

Lucifer slides his hand down, slow, leaving trails of cold heat along Sam’s skin, until he’s reached Sam’s wrist. He wraps his fingers around Sam’s hand, breathes out. His eyebrows draw together, all intense angelic focus, and Sam watches, feeling the cool pressure of Lucifer’s fingers on his, the soft pulse of his radial artery where Lucifer’s made himself have a heartbeat so he’ll feel more human for Sam. Everything, always, for Sam.

He feels it the second Lucifer’s Grace goes through, sharp and sudden burst of electricity at the back of Sam’s head and it makes him stumble, though they’ve done this before and Sam thinks he should be used to it by now. It’s all power and static and adrenaline, feels like Sam’s laid his hand on a live wire, lightning and fire and ice coursing through his veins. 

There’s Lucifer’s other hand resting carefully on Sam’s back, and “Look up, Sam,” he says, and Sam does, all the colors stripped down in front of him, sharp-edged and hi definition, each molecule shifting separately in its place. The stars almost painfully bright overhead, so that Sam has to blink a few times before he can focus. 

“What is it, Lucifer,” Sam asks, searching, constellation upon constellation and with Lucifer thrumming cold inside he knows each of them now, not just their Latin names but the names they were given upon creation as well, and their ages, their exact places in the sky. 

“Up there,” Lucifer says, jerking his chin, and Sam’s eyes travel where Lucifer’s directing him, aware of the soft curl of his fingers on his palm and the heavy weight of his hand against his spine and the low rush of wind in the trees, the quiet rustling of Lucifer’s wings behind them. Everything’s heightened with Lucifer’s power in him, an overload of sensation, a rush like when they’re fucking, hard and fast and blistering. 

Above them, in the constellation Lyra, is the Ring Nebula, pulsing soft in Sam’s eyes, all over bright colors and fading edges. “It looks like a hot spring,” Sam says, quiet and awed, and Lucifer nods, kind of tucking his head against Sam’s shoulder. 

“It’s mine,” he says, voice low and oddly cautious, and Sam turns to stare at him, his form shifting between human and angel as he stands there against the gray backdrop of snow.

“Yours?” Sam repeats.

“We were all allowed one star, in the beginning,” Lucifer explains, and when he moves his fingers on Sam’s back a vision fills his mind, bright young angel forming galaxies in his hands, smile curving his mouth. “I created the star first, and the constellation came later. But when I fell—” He stops, shaking his head, staring up at the nebula. Doesn’t need to finish his sentence for Sam to know what happened: all of Lucifer’s creations destroyed in the wake of his rebellion, his stars exploding as Lucifer watched helpless from the Cage. 

Sam feels it through the connection, crushing and debilitating in its intensity, and he reaches with his free hand, touches Lucifer’s jaw. 

“Luce,” he says, quietly.

Lucifer shakes his head, eyes on his feet. “It’s still beautiful,” he says, because it is, but Sam doesn’t miss the raw wistfulness in his voice. 

They stand like that for a while, kind of breathing each other’s air, Lucifer’s energy a steady presence inside Sam’s skin, both of them staring up at the nebula and watching it move slow and heavy through its constellation. When Lucifer’s fingers slide away, it’s with a slow reluctance, taking the angelic enhancements away bit by bit, until Sam’s just (mostly) human again.

“Fuck,” Sam says, and shivers. 

“We’re going to have to stay in the car,” Lucifer says, with his eyes fixed on the sky. Sam can see his shoulders, a tense line of hard muscle under his jacket, and he leans over the required inch to set his mouth on Lucifer’s skin, pressing his tongue flat against the pulse at his neck. 

“Sounds fine by me,” Sam says, soft rough ruined voice and Lucifer makes a low noise, eyes shutting as he tilts his head down, nudging Sam’s jaw up with his fingers so their mouths can meet. They move towards the car, shoes crunching in the snow, Sam rubbing his hands together between kisses and laughing at the brief stunned expression on Lucifer’s face when his bare hand touches the car metal. 

“It’s _cold,_ Sam,” Lucifer says, like it’s betrayed him somehow, and Sam presses him against it, licks a long line up Lucifer’s neck and feels him shudder. 

“You shouldn’t care, you keep Hell about the same temperature as the inside of a freezer,” Sam says, and Lucifer makes a noncommittal sound, his mouth curving a little where he thinks Sam can’t see.

They make it to the backseat eventually, Lucifer pressed warm and firm against Sam, carding his fingers through Sam’s hair and mouthing against the hollow of his throat. Sam shoves a few packets of food out of the way, hooks one leg around Lucifer’s waist, keeps the other one pressed to the floor. There isn’t room for them to do much more than rub against each other, Sam’s jeans unzipped, his hand stuck halfway up Lucifer’s shirt. Feeling the deliberately human softness of his skin as he pushes against him, gasping words into the rough hair on his jaw, a mix of Latin and English and the little Enochian he knows. On Earth, Lucifer is corporeal in different ways than in Hell, his wings aren’t quite as visible—being on a different plane and made mostly of lightning and shadow—but Sam can still run his fingers through them, feeling static crackle along his hands as he strokes the feathers and draws breathless grunts from Lucifer’s throat. 

Lucifer comes with his fingers in Sam’s mouth, tensing against him and making broken sounds. Sam joins him a few seconds later, staring backwards out the window at the night sky, feeling Lucifer already draped heavily over him as he slides through the wet slick on his bare stomach, the strip of skin exposed where his shirt’s been rucked up. 

They lie there until it starts to get gross and tacky, and then Lucifer cleans by staring at the wet patch, and Sam sits up, tugging his clothes back on all the way and pushing his hair out of his eyes with shaking hands. 

“Thank you,” he says, meaning the nebula, meaning everything, voice muffled against Lucifer’s hair. 

Lucifer isn’t smiling, but his hand is resting on Sam’s knee, and he squeezes a little tighter, eyes going soft around the edges. “You’re welcome, Sam,” he murmurs.

*

In Hell, there was practice, and there was blood-drinking, and then there was more practice. Sam disliked ripping through so many demons; had Caelis brought back, took the blood he offered from his arm. He healed injured souls, never asked what they’d done to be tortured, just lay his hand across their foreheads and soothed the feverish tint of their skin. The small patch of moss beside his throne had become somewhat of a thriving organism, and Sam tended it, made it into a garden. The more power he gained, the more he was capable of: growing flowers with his own hands, smell of fresh dirt always lingering on him wherever he went. 

And of course, there was Lucifer. Lucifer who spent hours with Sam, told him what he could do and how to do it, never pushed, just stood back and let Sam make all the decisions for himself. He was quiet most of the time, patient in a cold, terrifying sort of way. His eyes would follow Sam around the room as Sam learned how to move things with his mind, harnessed the powers Azazel had given him so many years before, telepathy and telekinesis and the more recently discovered ability to heal. Lucifer seemed to be waiting for something, Sam didn’t know what, but the fact that he was around so often didn’t scare Sam nearly as much as he thought it should. 

None of this scared Sam as much as he thought it should, actually. 

It happened about three hundred years into Sam’s stay in Hell that he and Lucifer were walking through the garden, aimless little stroll that Sam had initiated and Lucifer had joined. They were nearly shoulder to shoulder, and had walked around about six times—the garden was large, but Sam was still working on expanding it, so it was not nearly as spacious as it would become. Sam had a small bird in his hands—the demons accidentally carried animal passengers from Earth from time to time, and Sam enjoyed caring for them until they were ready to go home—and he and Lucifer had not spoken to each other once since they’d started walking, but the silence was okay. Almost companionable. 

Sam was kind of involved in the idea of making a carrot patch next to the radishes when Lucifer spoke up, low and careful: _How are you, Sam?_ and Sam started at the question. 

No one had asked him that—and sounded like they meant it—in a long time.

_I’m okay,_ he replied, stroking the bird’s wing and listening to it make a tiny chirp in response. _Practice is coming along. I’m almost able to move an entire group of demons from one section of Hell to the other, now._

Lucifer had a very small smile on his face, listening to Sam talk. _That’s good, Sam,_ he said. _You must be proud of yourself._

_Yeah, I am,_ Sam said, and was kind of surprised to realize he meant it. _I mean. Drinking the demon blood is probably never not gonna be weird, but it’s just. It’s life now, y’know? It’s not like I didn’t make that decision on my own._

Lucifer nodded slowly, strange sad expression on his face as they walked. _I understand,_ he said, and they were quiet for a few more minutes. 

Sam let the bird go as they turned for their seventh round of the garden, glanced at Lucifer. _Can I ask you something?_

_Of course, Sam. Anything._

He hesitated, pushing a hand through his hair. _When we were first down here,_ he started, kind of uncertain and Lucifer stopped walking, made Sam stop too so they could look at each other. _I—you offered me the demon blood, and I said no._

Lucifer nodded. 

_You looked like you were hurting, then,_ Sam continued after a second. He was nervous for no apparent reason, all shaky inside like he thought Lucifer was going to get angry. Which was ridiculous, Lucifer had never given Sam reason to think that before. _I’m just wondering. Is it okay now? Whatever was wrong with you, I mean._

Something flashed in the backs of Lucifer’s eyes, not quite dangerous but it was enough to have Sam step back a bit, swallowing and getting ready to murmur some sort of apology. But Lucifer held up his hand, and _It’s fine, Sam,_ he said. _I should have realized you’d want to know._ He rolled his shoulders, cut his eyes away for a moment. _I suppose you’re ready to see them now,_ he said, and Sam opened his mouth to ask ‘what’ and was stunned into silence a moment later by the appearance of Lucifer’s wings. 

They stretched out in both directions; Sam got the impression they were over a mile long but something about Hell’s atmosphere was preventing him from seeing them like that, or maybe it was his still mostly-human mind trying to size them down. Either way they were still enormous, branching off Lucifer’s shoulders, coming up to a point and falling down at sharp angles. Like an eagle’s wings, only larger. They were the colors of sunset, auburn and ochre and burnt sienna feathers flared over bone and shadow. Sam got the impression of lightning tucked away in their depths. 

_Oh my god, Lucifer,_ Sam breathed, staring, and Lucifer shifted his wings in a move Sam would’ve called self-conscious on any other being. 

_They have been in pain for millennia,_ Lucifer explained. _I’ve been healing them slowly since you released me from the Cage, but it was not until I was able to return to Hell that I’ve had the full ability to make them whole again._

Sam was reaching out without thinking, his fingers aching at the proximity of the wings, vague longing stirred up in his chest that he didn’t fully understand. _Can I,_ he started, unsure, and Lucifer nodded, shifting one wing closer.

_Be careful,_ he warned, when Sam’s hand was nearly on top. _They’re still new._

Sam touched, slow and cautious, and it was—Jesus, it was like nothing he’d ever felt before, sudden bolts of electricity running down his arm and he could feel the spaces between corporeal matter, where there was nothing visible but shadow. Strange sensation like he was touching a storm, and he shivered, brushing his hand across the feathers and then the bones beside them. Everything felt metallic, dense, and Sam asked, _Did they hurt because they’re so heavy?_ and Lucifer shook his head, watching Sam, eyes trained on his fingers. 

_They hurt because they were damaged when I fell,_ he explained, and Sam breathed out.

_Oh,_ Sam said, and, _I didn’t know,_ but Lucifer just shook his head again, allowing Sam to stroke his wing for another few seconds before tucking them both carefully back. 

_It’s all right, Sam,_ he said. And then, _thank you,_ not looking at Sam now, biting his lower lip in a startlingly human gesture.

_For what?_ Sam asked, staring at the spaces where Lucifer’s wings used to be and thinking, in half-formed terms, that he’d like to see them again soon.

_For looking at them without judgment,_ Lucifer replied softly.

*

Dawn breaks soft over Wyoming, trickling pastel colors creeping over the horizon in anticipation of the Sun. Sam wakes up stretched out over the backseat of the Mazda, his legs cramped from where they’ve been bent up all night against the door, seatbelt pushing hard into his back. He props himself up on one elbow and sees Lucifer sitting in the driver’s seat, hand on the wheel, staring absent and unseeing at the speedometer. He’s in his usual angelic trance, waiting for Sam to wake up, and Sam slides a hand across his shoulder, watches him blink his way into existence, slow smile curving his mouth up at the corner as he registers Sam behind him. 

“Hello, Sam,” he murmurs, with the pale orange sunlight washing over his fine blond eyebrows and creating a scrim of gold around his whole face. 

“Morning, Luce,” Sam says, tucking his head against Lucifer’s shoulder, and then, “God, I’m ready to fuckin’ _go,_ let’s call a tow truck or something—” 

But Lucifer’s interrupting him, shaking his head and “Look in the trunk,” he says, voice still a little rough with disuse.

Sam makes a protesting noise at having to go outside but it’s more for show than anything else, he might feel the cold more easily on Earth than in Hell but that doesn’t mean he hates it. He pushes open his door and stretches his legs, listening to the joints pop and thinking, abstractly, that he’s getting older. 

The trunk is already popped open when he gets to it, Lucifer must have found the right button and Sam pushes it all the way up, looks inside. 

Resting at the bottom of the trunk, next to Sam’s duffel bag—the one he stole from a camping store in Arkansas while Lucifer talked to the store clerk, so they’d have a place to keep their temporary fresh sets of clothes—is a new tire. 

Not a spare, it’s too large and too wide to be a spare, a _whole new tire_ is in the trunk and Sam spends a good minute staring at it, blinking in the early morning sun and wondering if it’s possible that he’s having a hallucination. 

“You all right, Sam?” Lucifer calls, and Sam finally reaches in and pulls it out, slamming the trunk shut and walking around to the driver’s side of the car.

“Where—” he starts, uncertain, ready to be at least partially annoyed with Lucifer if that’s been in the trunk since last night.

“I had a hard time locating one that would fit this car,” Lucifer says, “and then I had to transport it here. It took a few hours longer than I’d expected,” apologetic, shaking his head, and Sam sets the tire on the ground. 

“It’s okay, Luce,” he says. “Thanks.”

Lucifer tilts his head to the side. “I thought you’d want to fix it manually, anyway,” he adds, after a long moment. “I remembered you’re as much a mechanic as your brother, and you haven’t had much chance to be around cars in Hell.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look up from where he’s gripping the jack with his fingers and unscrewing the old tire with his mind, but he smiles at his shoes, and feels Lucifer relax in response. 

Fifteen minutes later, he’s sitting in the driver’s seat again, jack and wrench in the trunk and flat tire buried under mounds of snow for someone else to find. Sam turns the key in the ignition and feels the whole car come roaring into life under his hands. The radio comes to life, “On the Road Again” by Willie Nelson, and both Sam and Lucifer laugh, amused and content while they wait for the heater to start working. 

Sam carefully moves the car onto the road, listening to the hiss of snow coming off the tires as it struggles onto the pavement, and edges along a ways, going slow, testing the new tire, wiping ice off the front windshield. 

“Come on, Sam, the faster you get us to the next motel, the faster we can have a real bed,” Lucifer says, one eyebrow lifted as he curls his fingers into the soft ends of Sam’s hair, stroking his thumb across the back of his neck. 

Sam leans into the touch for a second, and then grins, dimples flashing. The accelerator gets shoved to the floor, the engine revs, and they’re gone.


End file.
